Rock On Rockall      Oh the empire is finished no foreign lands to seize    So the greedy eyes of England are looking towards the seas    Two hundred miles from Donegal, there's a place that's called Rockall    And the groping hands of Whitehall are grabbing at its walls       Oh rock on Rockall, you'll never fall to Britain's greedy hands    Or you'll meet the same resistance that you did in many lands    May the seagulls rise and pluck your eyes and the water crush your shell,    And the natural gas will burn your ass and blow you all to hell.       For this rock is part of Ireland, 'cos it' s written in folklore    That Fionn MacCumhaill took a sod of grass and he threw it to the fore,    Then he tossed a pebble across the sea, where ever it did fall,    For the sod became the Isle of Man and the pebble's called Rockall.       Now the seas will not be silent, while Britannia grabs the waves    And remember that the Irish will no longer be your slaves,    And remember that Britannia, well, - she rules the waves no more    So keep your hands off Rockall - it's Irish to the core.